The Last Witness

by John Matthews

  But she wondered first and foremost if she’d ever be able to find him. Knowing how intent her father had been on burying him forever out of sight and reach, probably not.

  NINE

  ‘You called earlier?’ Roman hunched his collar up tight. An icy wind outside seemed to still penetrate the glass of the telephone booth. His caller’s usual booth two blocks from RCMP HQ had come up on his call monitor at home.

  ‘Yes, I did.’ The voice at the other end was flat, bland. He didn’t make the point that it had been three times or give any hint now as to why it was so urgent. As arranged at the outset, he was only to be called at home in an emergency, and nothing possibly incriminating should ever pass between them over the line.

  ‘You can call me back on this number…’ Roman read out the number on the phone.

  ‘Yeah… fine.’

  The line went dead, and Roman stamped his feet and blew in his hands as he waited on the call back. It took a moment more than usual.

  ‘I’ve started using the booth a block further away from home – just in case they might have cottoned on to me using the nearest booth,’ his caller explained.

  ‘Okay – where’s the fire? What’s happened?’ Roman’s tone was impatient, the wait in the cold and the cloak and dagger routine adding to his edginess.

  ‘It’s Donatiens. He was at our HQ today, being questioned by Chenouda…’

  Roman felt the cold grip him even deeper as the details came out, what few he was able to extract with a chain of increasingly staccato questions: What time? How long for? What was said?

  Minutes later he was speeding towards their lap-dancing club on Rue Sherbrooke. He’d kept Funicelli’s car, not wanting the hassle of possibly being stopped and quizzed by the RCMP. He swung in wildly as he approached, screeching to a halt and slamming the car door. So far he’d taken out his anger and frustration on only inanimate objects – slamming his palm against the kiosk glass after hanging up, banging one fist repeatedly against the steering wheel as he drove – but he swore that if the club doorman or any of the staff said the wrong thing, he’d lay them flat in one.

  But it was all smiles, nods and cordial greetings as he made his way through: ‘Bonsoir, Monsieur Lacaille. Ca va?’

  Azy, the head barman, fired him a broad Caribbean grin as he perched on a bar stool.

  ‘What’ll it be, bossman?’ To Azy, everyone was man, my man, or bossman, according to status.

  Roman leant both arms heavily on the counter and let out an exaggerated huffed sigh. Azy’s smile was hard to resist, but all Roman could muster was a weak grimace. ‘Usual fucking poison. A triple.’ Roman looked around. ‘No Yves then tonight?’ As a rotating manager between their three clubs and a restaurant, Yves was there at most two nights a week.

  ‘No. He said he’d come by about nine tomorrow night.’ Azy picked out the bottle without hardly looking and poured a third of a large balloon of Hine. ‘Celebrating something?’ he enquired.

  ‘Celebrating?’ Roman cocked a quizzical eyebrow. He raised the glass, took the first slug. ‘Nah. Just something to break the ice.’ He smirked to himself at the image of Venegas sliding away beneath the ice. The only thing to have gone right all day. ‘It’s ass-freezing weather out there.’

  Azy missed any hidden significance and held the same half smile as he put back the bottle, the lights and mirrors behind picking out his blue eyes. The product of a Jamaican father and Quebecois mother, the joke among the staff was that he’d got his mother’s eyes and his father’s dick, fuelled by dressing-room gossip from when he’d dated one of the girls last year. But Azy had been hired for his good dress and customer sense, and his familiarity with practically every known cocktail from Maine to Shanghai. Just turned thirty with pineapple dreadlocks dangling around his coffee tone, broad cheek-boned face like a dead spider, his dress was always hip and stylish and he was popular with the girls: he was usually their first choice to confide in if there were problems, in or outside of the club.

  Roman swivelled round and surveyed the room: Amy, Chantelle, Janine, Lucy, then a new girl Roman didn’t recognize; though he was looking mainly for Viana… finally picking her out from the subdued lighting in the far corner, dancing for a customer. He’d wait until she was finished, then call her over. Just after nine-thirty, the club was almost half full: not bad for a weekday.

  Celebration? He’d thought originally of coming down here for a quick victory drink after Venegas. The warm glow of a drink in his stomach and some warm pussy in his lap would have reminded him too how good it was to be alive after his own close escape. But after the call just past, it was just somewhere with loud music and writhing bodies to help drown the madness of the day.

  Three hours? Three fucking hours? He’d asked the question twice in disbelief when told how long Donatiens had spent at RCMP HQ. His contact tried to placate him that he didn’t think much dramatic had been said, otherwise he’d have probably heard about it by now – but he’d let him know more tomorrow.

  Three hours? Not much said. Huh! Who was he kidding? In that time, Donatiens could have spilled every last detail about the Lacaille family, including all their shoe sizes – and no doubt that night with Leduc would have been the first topic in the frame.

  Roman eased his collar as he felt a sudden rush of heat to his face and neck. They could be on their way for him in a squad car any time now. Or maybe they were still working on final strategy and backroom legal paperwork? But if it involved checking with Crown prosecution, surely his contact would have heard by now? He took a couple of hasty brandy slugs, then knocked back the rest in one and ordered another triple.

  The first hint of concern tempered Azy’s smile as he poured, realizing that Roman was on overdrive: normally he’d nurse a single brandy for almost an hour.

  Roman hit the re-fill a bit slower, he still had a third of it left to swirl around in the bottom after fifteen minutes, his jaw working ever tighter as he watched Viana continue dancing for the same man one song after the next. The guy was hogging her half the night, when was he going to get a look in? Roman raised an acknowledging hand and fired a brief smile at one point when he thought she’d looked over, but with the darkness of the club it was difficult to tell if she’d seen him or not.

  As the next song started, Prince’s ‘Kiss’, and she went into another routine of writhes and grinds, Roman sharply knocked back the last of his drink. That was it. He was going to tell the guy to move on and try some other pussy. But two steps from the bar stool he noticed her wriggling back into her tanga. Next came her short, tight black satin skirt, pulled up her thighs excruciatingly slowly. It was a reverse strip.

  Azy’s voice came from behind. ‘Guy comes by twice a week. Same routine every time – eight or nine songs, finishing how it started. And always with Viana.’

  ‘Yeah. Whatever does it for you.’ Roman perched back on the bar stool. ‘Hit me with another big one meanwhile, and whatever Viana wants.’

  Azy was getting seriously worried now. He’d never seen Roman drink so hard and fast, but there was something bubbling beneath Roman’s slightly glazed eyes that warned him not to say anything. Just pour. Smile. What he was paid to do: customers often took him for some sort of social counsellor, but as long as he never got the roles confused.

  Viana pecked her client on the cheek as she took his money, then made her way over, firing a broad grin as she got closer.

  ‘Sorry, Romy. Some of these guys just seem to want to take monopoly.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Whatever.’ Roman didn’t want to think about sharing her. He held a hand to one side. ‘I’ve had one of those days. I need some serious attention here.’

  They moved about six yards to the side of the bar, the first subdued-lit area. Viana took a quick sip of her coke as they sat. The rule for the girls was soft drinks only, except for the last hour when they could drink either vodka or champagne: neither smelt on the breath. Viana moistened her lips as she set the glass down, and spread her l
egs suggestively, showing a yard of tan thigh leading to heaven.

  ‘So, Romy – how you been, since… since last week?’

  ‘Don’t ask. Don’t fucking ask.’ Roman shook his head quickly, but he found it hard to rip his eyes from the same spot: her tanga barely covered her neatly trimmed vulva, and he swore he could see a trace of moisture already there. Or maybe it was sweat from all the dancing?

  ‘You look tired… real tired.’ She stood up, started swaying to the beat of ‘Constant Ariba’ playing. ‘Just relax… relax.’

  Roman felt the ice from the lake and the tightness in his chest from this new problem with Donatiens start to melt and ease from his body. Viana’s smile, the tease on her lips and in her eyes, her coffee-cream skin glistening with a faint sheen of sweat, seemed to radiate a heat from a yard away that seared straight through him and touched every nerve end. She was gorgeous, an exquisite cocktail of Haitian, Lebanese, French Quebecois and Italian, with crinkly dark hair half way down her back and soft brown eyes like a bed of autumn leaves; she was by far Roman’s favourite of all the girls, her cocaine habit which had helped forge their relationship aside. He’d have chosen her anyway, she was streets ahead of the rest. A natural.

  Next was the tanga. She bent away from him as she slowly eased it down, then swivelled around and perched herself back on the stool opposite. Leaning back, she scissored her legs high and wide apart and slowly traced her hands from her ankles down. She paused as her hands came within an inch of meeting, as if to make sure Roman’s attention was fully on what her hands were framing, before slowly pulling her lips apart to give Roman a glimpse of her pink moistness. Tantalisingly, she slid a single finger inside.

  Roman shuddered and closed his eyes. A natural.

  But as he opened them again, he noticed Viana’s previous customer looking over from the bar, his steel-rimmed glasses glinting with the mirrored lights; he seemed vaguely perturbed that Viana was giving someone else such a good show, as if her nine dances with him somehow gave him proprietary rights. He looked like a yuppie banker or accountant, and suddenly Roman was reminded of Donatiens: of how he’d gained strong favour with Jean-Paul so quickly, leaving him on the sidelines of the main thrust and flow of business. Practically out in the cold. He glared back at steel-rimmed: I’ll show you who is in control.

  The track changed to ‘I’m Every Woman’, and Viana turned and leant away from him, bending almost double and reaching back to spread her butt cheeks as she wriggled at him.

  ‘Yeah, that’s it, doll… spread that smile for me.’ But Roman was smiling challengingly towards steel-rimmed as he reached out and started stroking Viana’s thighs.

  She didn’t protest at first – the club rule was no touching – only a slight frown crossed her face. But as Roman’s stroking became more insistent, with one hand raising to lazily trace a finger up the cleft of her butt, she flinched and pulled away.

  ‘Not here, Romy… not here.’

  ‘You got that right. At my place you ride my dick like it was going out of style.’ Roman said it loud enough to be heard at the bar. Steel-rimmed looked away uncomfortably towards the bottles ahead. Azy too looked perturbed; he’d long suspected they had something going on, but Viana looked distraught at it being broadcast so openly and gauchely. Though Azy knew better than to intervene. He kept his head down, studiously cleaning and stacking glasses.

  Roman reached out and brusquely grabbed her thigh, pulling her close. ‘Come on, stop being so prissy.’

  She wriggled and tried to break free. ‘No, Roman, no… not here.’ This time her tone was firmer.

  Roman clutched tighter with both hands, keeping his grip. He shook her hard. ‘Look. I own this fucking club, and I own you. Now just be a good girl and do what you’re told… bend for me like you did before.’ Roman glared icily at her, a smile slowly easing as she hesitatingly complied. He could feel her shaking in his grip, which only added to his excitement. The feeling of control.

  Viana’s writhing was now more stilted, staccato, as the first clouds of worry crossed her face. This was a different Roman: a fiery, dangerously bubbling mood she’d seen a couple of times before, but never directed at her.

  Roman smiled contemptuously at steel-rimmed, who was looking over again. See. I’ll show you who is in control. Who’s boss. You, Donatiens… the lot of you. I’ll get back what’s rightfully mine. He felt the effects of the brandy washing through, making his senses float pleasantly. ‘Come on, babe. Spread again,’ he murmured dreamily. ‘… Wide.’

  Viana slowly, reluctantly moved her legs further apart, and he ran one finger lazily along her cleft, feeling the warmth and moistness there. Yeah. He’d be back where he should be soon… with everything at his fingertips. The sudden sensation that everything around moved in time to his touch: Viana’s swaying body, the room and lights around swirling gently, the music pumping almost in rhythm with his own quickening pulse and Viana’s trembling. He slipped one finger slowly inside, her heat so feverish it almost burnt.

  ‘Please, Romy… please!’ Her eyes welled with tears of fear and humiliation.

  But her tensing against his finger, increasing the constriction, only heightened his excitement. He pushed more forcefully, working the finger around. Roman glanced over at his audience: Steel-rimmed had already looked away in disgust, but Azy was looking over more keenly and agitatedly, though quickly averted his gaze.

  ‘Come on, doll, you know you like it, you…’ The thought hit him suddenly, caught him mid-breath: Donatiens being taken into custody could be just what he was looking for to break golden boy’s favour with Jean-Paul! Particularly if Donatiens chose not to tell Jean-Paul. All trust would immediately go to the wind. Roman continued working the finger distractedly as his thoughts gelled.

  ‘Please, Romy! …’ Viana’s body shuddered and quaked as her tears flowed freely.

  Azy threw down his bar towel and came over. He shrugged and proffered one palm out towards Viana: a plea for reason. ‘Come on, Bossman – not like this. The lady’s getting upset.’

  ‘What?’ Roman tried to rip his thoughts back. If Donatiens intended to tell Jean-Paul, the first sign would be with Simone. If he told her, he’d likely tell Jean-Paul. If not…

  ‘In private, it’s okay.’ Azy held both hands out. ‘But if you do it here, then the customers start to get ideas. They think they can get away with that sort o’ thing with all the girls.’ Azy injected heavy reason into his voice, but nerves and tension sweated from every pore, his jaw jutting tight as he waited for Roman’s fireball temper to spit back at him.

  Roman’s eyes jumped agitatedly between Azy, Viana and the club around – but then he merely nodded and pulled his hands away, raising them in apology. ‘You’re right… you’re absolutely right. Sorry.’ He glanced hastily at his watch: 10.14 pm. Funicelli would have had the tape running for over two hours now. There could be something on it already. Perhaps even some indication of what Donatiens had spilled to Chenouda. ‘Gotta go now. See a friend.’ He stood up and slapped a fifty dollar note on the table for Viana. ‘Keep that pussy warm for me, babe. I’ll catch you later.’ And left a bemused Azy and Viana staring at his back as he scurried out of the club.

  Viana dabbed at her tear-stained make-up and thanked Azy for stepping in. And while she sat out the next few songs at the bar, Azy seized the opportunity, with a double-shot of vodka put in her coke to soothe her nerves and ease her tongue, of finding out more about her relationship with Roman.

  Azy couldn’t make the call until he left the club at almost 2.30 am, from a phone booth halfway home.

  ‘I’m sorry to call so late – but you said you wanted to know if I saw Roman.’

  ‘Yeah… sure.’ Quick throat clearing from the other end as Michel Chenouda sat up in bed, suddenly more alert. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Well, he came by the club first of all just past nine-thirty…’ Azy related Roman’s disturbed mood: the heavy drinking, his rough-handling one of the girls. ‘In
the end I had to intervene. With the mood he was in, I was expecting trouble, I can tell you. But then he suddenly does a turn-turtle and rushes off, saying he had to see a friend and would be back later.’

  A part of Michel relaxed: if Roman was edgy and troubled when he walked in the club, then very likely Venegas still presented a problem. If he’d hid Venegas away somewhere, he wouldn’t have been so troubled. ‘We know Roman showed later, because that’s the one and only sighting we got of him.’

  ‘That’s right. About an hour and a half ago.’

  ‘And what was he like then?’

  ‘All smiles, relaxed, happy – completely different mood. And drinking moderately this time. He made up with the girl he gave a hard time to earlier, and stayed on to do the take.’

  Michel amended his thoughts: perhaps Roman’s earlier edginess was because he was waiting on news on Venegas, which only came in later into the night. But it was all purely supposition: the first sighting of Roman had been just after twelve-thirty when he arrived by cab to collect his car from Frank Massenat’s, who had picked it up earlier from the garage. Then he’d headed back to the club. But for the rest of the day, except for Azy seeing him at the club, he’d been invisible – which was obviously what he had intended. He could have had Venegas holed away practically anywhere by now. They’d had a car constantly parked down the road from Venegas’s apartment building, but nothing. All they could do was watch Roman closely the next few days and keep an all-points alert out for Venegas, and hope something broke.

  ‘And was Roman alone each time, or did he meet or talk to anyone else inside?’

  ‘No. He was alone both times. And the only person he spoke to apart from me was the girl.’

  Michel ran a hand through his hair and eased a shallow, deflated sigh. Nothing of any real value, except maybe the mood swing. He thanked Azy for the call. ‘Anything new comes up, let me know.’